when we first met
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: one ending of many. one beginning of more. (short angsty songfic: "samson" by regina spektor)


**A/N:** It was requested for me to remove the song lyrics from this fic (*sigh*), but I didn't want to take the whole thing down! Just know that this is inspired by the song. :)

* * *

You wake up crying.

It's bright, and for a few seconds you hear very faint voices. You don't know the name they're calling, but you think it could be yours. Your name is one thing you would never forget…right?

"Hello?" you say.

Your voice is a little bit hoarse, and higher than you expect. You are alone.

You are alone, and you keep crying.

"Hello!" you say, louder this time, and your voice cracks.

"Hey, someone's there, right?"

You look around, trying to figure out where you are. You're in a room—it looks like an attic—and a slice of cold light falls across the floor. It turns your small feet white—as white as the robe you're wearing. You stare down at your feet, all ten toes.

The sleeves of your robe are too long. The tips of your fingers barely come out the ends, and you use the excess fabric to scrub at your eyes. The ends of the sleeves come away darkened, damp.

Are you really all alone?

* * *

You feel like you've asked it a hundred times. In reality, you've probably asked it more than a hundred. The assurance of each "yes" seems to wear off so much faster with repetition.

She looks at you, and maybe by now she's wondering what about her words you find so hard to believe.

"I remember what I said," she says to you, in obvious exasperation.

"Okay. Pretend that I _don't_."

The corners of her mouth turn down, and you brace yourself for a refusal, fired like a gunshot into your face.

"Yato. I'm your believer. My faith in you and my memories of you will never disappear."

You blink. And you try not to look too relieved. However, she keeps talking, and her face falls.

"But…it seems like your faith in _me_ has a long way to go."

Shit. That's not how this was supposed to happen.

She gave you the right answer, but then she starts walking away.

"Wha—Hiyori! Where are you going?!"

She whirls on you suddenly, and you curl your spine, ready to absorb the impact of her kick. But she doesn't raise her foot, and you venture a glance at her face. The uneven streak of pink across her cheeks is brighter than her tail.

"You still really think I'm going to forget you?! If you ask me, _I'm_ not the one with the crap memory!"

Her words strike you between the eyes—and after a few shocked seconds, you start laughing. She looks offended…and also like she might actually kick you this time.

"Okay, okay. I get it. Sorry."

You keep smiling, but your laughter stops. She lowers her heel to the ground again, to your relief: one more painful knockout avoided through a simple apology.

"How about, for once, you say you won't forget _me_ ," she suggests, the streak of angry color on her cheeks suffusing into a uniform blush.

You don't speak for a few seconds. Blood sings so loudly in your ears that you can't hear anything else. Eventually, you say:

"Hiyori, you are a moron."

You can see her brain practically screeching to a halt inside her skull.

" _What_ did you call me?"

"A moron. For thinking I could forget you. Sheesh, I thought you were _smart_ or something, but…"

You shrug, as though helpless against her stupidity. Her fists ball up, the end of her cord bristles, and her cheeks puff out, inflating with rage.

"Quit. Insulting me. Yato."

"Then quit making it so easy! You think I could forget you?! That's like forgetting I have arms!"

Her murderous look morphs into a hilariously puzzled one.

"…What?"

"You are a part of me, dumbass. Your belief in me helps me keep existing. You really think that could just slip my mind?"

You walk right up to her, putting both your hands on her hot cheeks. She makes a funny, strangled noise.

"So, that's why _you-_ equals- _moron_."

One of her hands goes up to your wrist, and touches it. She's still evidently speechless, so you seize the opportunity and plant a loud kiss on the top of her head.

* * *

War, battle, victory. As a god of calamity, it's a familiar melody to you. Like the cycle of the seasons—except with significantly more screaming.

This time, the melody hits a wrong note. You lose.

Now, you're standing in the middle of a Purification Ring.

"I won't _let you!"_ Yukine shrieks, throwing his negligible weight against the boundary walls drawn by four impassive shinki. Then he collapses, pounding with a weak fist on the humming barrier.

"Do it to me. Do it to me instead. I'll stand in his place."

A few of the shinki raise their eyebrows, and at the end of your life, you realize once more how lucky you have been. The poor kid definitely deserved better than this. He's sobbing so damn much that, despite your numbness, tears form in your own eyes.

Then:

"Yato—?"

You were kind of hoping she wouldn't have to see this. Especially since it means you won't be holding up your end of the promise.

She stands behind another borderline, her expression blank with shock. Then her eyes travel over the ring, over to Yukine trapped in his cage of white light, and every drop of color leaves her face.

You read the silent, horrified "no" that never has a chance to pass her lips. For a moment everything is very, very quiet.

And then, it isn't.

* * *

Are you really all alone?

Suddenly, there are quick footsteps, two sets of them, and a pair of very familiar voices that swim out of a cloudy dream. Your head turns toward their source.

You see a door, and as soon as you see it, it flies open. The owners of the voices burst through it, heavy breaths tangling up in their half-formed sentences.

"Is he really—?"

"He's—he's…"

The two of them fall silent, staring at you.

A boy and a girl. A boy with hawthorn eyes, and a bright, fragile face, and a name peeking out from the dip of his left collarbone. A girl with a tail swishing against her ankles, and bare, dirt-streaked legs, and a destroyed expression frozen on her young features.

The boy speaks.

"Are you okay?"

You sniff loudly, nodding. At least now you're not alone.

The two of them approach you, and the boy kneels down. He rolls up the too-long sleeves of your robe and then, hesitantly, awkwardly, ruffles your hair.

"I'm Yukine."

He smiles, and a last tear rolls off the tip of your nose. You smile back at him, and then you hear something behind you. Turning around, you see the girl with the tail. She's picked something up off the ground. Something that looks like a tiny house.

She holds it with her fingertips, like she's handling broken glass.

"Who are you?" you ask. The skin under her fingernails whitens. The tiny house trembles. Then, she sets it back down on the floor.

"My name's Hiyori," she says, coming to kneel next to the boy called Yukine. "We're your friends."

She looks you straight in the eye, matching Yukine's cheery expression. But they're both of them a little too sunny, smiling like overbright light bulbs. Your eyes hurt from it.

"Mine is…?" you ask. It seems important to you to be sure of your name.

Hiyori's breath hitches—you hear it tug on something deep in her lungs. Yukine says quickly, still smiling:

"You are Yato. You're a god."

A god. That sounds like it could be true. You glance over your shoulder, at the thing that looks like a tiny house. It's so small…but the way she held it.

"What's that?"

"That's your shrine," Hiyori says. Her voice is light, but when you look back at her, there's something underneath her eyes that makes yours spill over again.

You're full of questions, and even more full of tears. They squeeze out from under your eyelids, and they just keep coming and coming, even though you don't know what they're for.

"A shrine?" you ask, thickly.

She puts her arms around you, and you're pretty sure that she's crying too. Over her shoulder, you see that Yukine swipes his hand roughly across his eyes, and he sniffs loudly.

Hiyori starts shaking as she holds you, and you put your arms around her neck. Maybe then neither of you will be so sad.

Her hand is warm on the back of your head. Roughly, through a swollen throat, she whispers:

"It means you weren't forgotten."


End file.
